


Come Here

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Here

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of spun off from something else that I was working on. It was just the flash of an idea, but you know how it is when you wake up with one of the guys talking to you.

## Come Here

by JC

Author's webpage: <http://www.skeeter63.org/jayci/>

Author's disclaimer: The characters from the TV series "The Sentinel" are not my property, and I am not making money off of them. That's all I have to say.

* * *

_Come here._

I can't even count the number of times that I've said that phrase. 

The number of times that I've said it to him alone are probably too numerous to mention. Calling to him for all kinds of reasons. But all to bring him to me. By my side. I'm so used to him now, just being here, that I'm afraid to even entertain the thought of him _not_ being here. 

And that's not always a good thing. Sometimes it just makes me distance myself, even when that's the opposite of what I want. I can't stop myself from just pushing away a little, and after a while, that makes him back off. I don't think he's afraid to invade the personal space that I'm growling to protect. I think that he just respects my feelings enough to let it go. I'm sure that psychoanalytical streak in him believes that if I live with myself long enough, I'll call him back. And that's true. 

I need him to be here. I'm used to him being here. I _want_ him here. 

But we do that little dance. Over and over. We're not fooling each other. It's like a ritual now. It's just the way we do things. 

Although, lately, it seems that I've found myself in the strangest place. We've been doing the back and forth tango for a few days now, and I've discovered something. I'm afraid to say two words. 

_Come here._

Just thinking about saying those words to him keeps filling my head with the sweet haze of seduction. Control freak that I am, I can no longer control that. I don't trust my own voice. I know that the husky tones of need will betray me. And the more I feel I can't say it, the more I _want_ to say it. At work, at home, in the truck, anywhere. Even in places and situations that wouldn't make any sense...until the unsteady roughness in my voice gave me away. 

I know that we take for granted how we feel about each other. You don't go through what we've gone through - from kidnappings, to sensory spikes, to Jags games - without a strong sense of how your partner feels about you. Unsaid, unwritten, but felt in your gut...your heart. For the most part, that's how we co-exist. 

Not to mention, that there's always been a physical pull. From day one. But we've never let it take us around the bend. We do our little back and forth bit, and let it go. Till next time. 

How could two men that are so different, be so much alike? 

Do I think that he'd be interested in me? Maybe. I think the attraction would interest him. I'm sure it already interests him. But is it about _me_ or hormones? I don't know. I'd have to ask him. I'd have to be touching him while I asked him. And right now I can't bring myself to do either. I can't even make myself say the two words that would bring him within range. 

As much as I'm afraid of my voice, I'm terrified of my hands. I've always touched him. He's always touched me. But, I'm in trouble now. In fact, I think that if this goes on much longer, I'll just shut down all together. To maintain a hold on my control will take every bit of my physical and mental energy. 

Here's the thing. I'm afraid to touch him, because I can't stop thinking about the places where I've _never_ touched him. Which leads to places I've never seen. Or smelled. Or tasted. Except in my dreams... or those times I've cheated. The time I dialed up my sight to catch him through the crack in the bathroom door. The time I sniffed all of his clothes when I was doing the laundry. The time I licked my fingers to taste his sweat after touching the back of his neck one hot day. Those memories and my fantasies are getting pretty overwhelming. 

I can feel me pulling myself inward, focusing mostly on hearing, which is easiest anyway, settling automatically on his heartbeat. But I won't hear the sound that I want to hear - that heartbeat racing in passion for me, because of me. I don't just want him to come _here_. I want him to _come_ here. On my chest, in my hand. On me. In me. Get the picture? 

He's worried. I know that he's worried. He's used to me either not talking, or letting snarls pass for conversation. But when I don't touch him... when I don't let him get close enough to touch me... 

I've been sitting on the couch for two hours watching him. He's pretending not to notice me watching, and I'm pretending not to notice him noticing. Still at it, you know, that old two to tango routine. And there are two words playing over and over in my head. Two simple words that now seem impossible to say. 

One of us is going to snap. If it's me, I'll shut down. If it's him, he'll get pissed. Because it's my problem. If it was _his_ problem, it'd be the opposite. Him closing off, me getting pissed. So different, so much alike. 

He's watching me outright now. I can hear a clock tick, and that sound is colliding in my head with the beat of his heart, and the soft, but startlingly clear sound of his eyes blinking. Hearing is kicking in with a vengeance. The rest is getting fuzzy. 

"Jim, talk to me, man. What is _wrong_?" 

I can hear him push his chair back, the rustle of his clothing as he rises, the faint creak of the table as he faces me and rests his butt on the edge. 

I want him, and I want him to want me. That's simple enough, right? We have almost everything else. That concern in his voice, that slightly elevated pulse rate, that scent of anxiety... I want to make those things disappear. I want to replace them with the stuff of my dreams. 

"Jim? Whatever it is, man..." 

He's not in my face - he's not yelling, or grabbing, or pushing - and I realize that I've fucked up. He's really _scared_. Talk about your triggers. Action, reaction. I can't even control how fast my senses slam back. The fact that I remember to breathe is a miracle. 

It seems to take a long while to focus my sight enough to get the full picture of him, leaning against the table, still out of my reach. I keep seeing the drops of sweat on his brow, the glint of metal at his ear, the short hairs shadowing his jawline, that little indentation in the middle of his upper lip. A weird Sentinel-sight montage - 'A View of a Guide'. 

I look into his eyes and see them brighten as relief floods them, as he sees that I'm back. That decision was out of my hands, like almost all of the other decisions I've made since I've known him. But one step I want to take on my own. 

He opens his mouth to speak. I can hear the intake of breath as he sets up for a lecture, an interrogation, or, maybe, a pep talk. Revving up his Guide voice, shifting into high gear, to deal with his wayward Sentinel. 

But, I have something _I_ have to say. So, I cut him off. 

Holding out my hand, actually _hoping_ that he'll hear the hunger in my voice, I finally say it. 

"Come here." 

The End 


End file.
